Just the Belief
by LaVioleBlanche
Summary: "Haven't you ever loved anything, Tool?" "Nothing that ever loved me back."  Yes, that's right. It's shameless Barney/Tool slash. Nothing explicit, rating for language, but yes, there is implied hot-n-heaviness. M/M
1. Who's Going Home With You Tonight?

This takes place a few years before the movie- I'm not sure exactly how many, but obviously it starts before the whole Bosnia incident.

I do not own the epic testosterone-fest that is the Expendables.

~X~

Barney: "Haven't you ever loved anything, Tool?"

Tool (looking at him): "Nothing that ever loved me back..."

~Expendables, the graphic novel (I shit you not. It's in there. Look it up.)

~::~

It started simply.

It was in... Russia? The Ukraine? Somewhere abut ten degrees colder than the Moon, that's for sure. Barney and Tool had taken the first and third shifts watching over their little campsite. When, at last, the mechanic had gotten back to the foxhole his friend had dug into the snow for them, his eyes were barely open. He collapsed into the flat-packed snow, chin hitting the rolled blanket he called a pillow, and was out like he'd been shot. Barney, waking long enough to see his buddy pass out, snorted in vague amusement and threw an extra blanket over him. Tool shifted in his sleep, and one hand somehow found its way onto Barney's hip, making him freeze, eyes widening as he glanced over at his companion, but the tattoo artist was still dead to the world.

Barney spent the rest of the night awake, staring down at that hand, both willing with all his might for it to move just a few inches, and terrified that it would do just that.

Two days later, the job finished and the rest of the Expendables down in town getting drunk and laid, the two of them sat drinking Tool's secret stash of Narragansetts in the back of his shop.

"So, I think we should fuck," Barney said, because Blunt is the only language he speaks.

Tool didn't really seem surprised by this announcement, which was surprising in and of itself. He glanced sideways at his fellow mercenary, one eyebrow lifting slightly, the bottle in his hand raised halfway to his lips, and said, "Oh yeah?" Like Barney had commented on the state of politics in Indonesia.

"Mm-hmm."

The long-haired man seemed to consider this, taking another slow sip of beer. He swallowed, pursed his lips contemplatively, and finally nodded. "Why the hell not. We're both drunker than the Pope on Easter." It was a blatant lie, because he'd finished his first beer five minutes ago and was only halfway through this one, and Barney was just beginning his third, which meant that neither of them was drunk; hell, they were barely buzzed at that point. Barney was willing to go along with the drunk excuse, though, if it made this easier.

"Yep," he said, and then turned and kissed Tool, which caught them both by surprise, and Barney thought for a second that maybe that was a mistake, maybe that made it too personal, but it was too late because Tool threw an arm around his shoulder and yanked him closer, sending them both tumbling backward.

The next five minutes or so sounded like this:

"You're not leavin' your shirt on, are ya?"

"Why the hell do you care if I leave my damn shirt on?"

"Maybe I like seeing my ink on you."

"Fine, fine." The sound of cloth falling.

A few moments of silence, interrupted by the occasional clatter of car parts falling and the bouts of quiet cursing that followed. Then:

"Is that right?"

"How the hell should I know- oww _shit_!"

"Okay, hang on, let me try... ohh, is that better for you cuz it's definitely better for me."

"I dunno man, it's not like I do this all the _oh_ god there right there _fffuck_, _Barn, shit!_"

"So I'm guessing it's better?"

"Shhut the fuck up and _move_."

Barney did, and in between the gasps and moans and bitten-off mumbles of "oh god, oh god" he began to understand why women throw themselves at Tool like groupies at an Aerosmith concert.

He was the first to wake up the next morning- thankfully none of the others had decided to stop by the shop that night- and for a while he lay as still as possible against the heat of his friend's back, trying to avoid the inevitable awkwardness. Tool shifted, made a kind of low groaning sound, and slowly rolled over.

"Oh, right," the mechanic said at length. "Mornin', Barney. Damn, my ass is killing me."

And that was it. Any awkwardness, any 'oh jeez what a drunken mistake' or 'well _that's_ never happening again' evaporated instantly. They both laughed, stretched, and staggered out of the bed they'd somehow ended up in. A few hours later, Tool got a call from some guys in Bolivia that needed a few good men- or rather, a few bad men- so he got the rest of the Expendables together and they made plans and that was that.

If any of the others noticed, they didn't seem to care much. True, when the new kid, Lee, first showed up, he cracked jokes about how much like a married couple Barney and Tool were, calling them Mum and Dad and laughing, and the others would laugh with him and Barney would grumble and Tool would shake his head, playing along. After a few weeks of this, though, the 'married' jokes stopped all at once. Barney was worried that the kid must have walked in on them, but Tool was sure that one of the others- maybe Yin- had pulled Lee over and had a quick discussion with him.

It all went to hell one night in Bosnia.

He should've known something was wrong when Tool went wandering away from the camp. He should've said something; should've forbade the mechanic from leaving the group. Hell, at the very least he should've gone with him. His concern would have been easy enough to explain away- the long-haired man had been shot to shit earlier that day; he was in no condition to be walking around on his own, but Barney was engrossed in a poker game with Gunnar and Hale and Lee and he just didn't feel like staggering around the dark village with his black-minded friend. So the leader of the Expendables watched, from the corner of his eye, the retreating back of the tattooist disappearing into the night, and then he raised Hale, who called his bluff, and the rest of the evening bled into the night and before he knew it the sun was crawling its way up the mountains and Tool came stumbling back, an empty bottle in one hand, the other clutching his bandaged side. He caught sight of his friend, still awake in spite of the fact that everyone else had passed out hours ago, and grinned sickly.

"What'sa matter, Barney, don't you ever sleep?"

"The hell happened to you?" Barney asked, ignoring the words and watching the flat dead expression that seeped in behind Tool's eyes.

"Nothin'. Not a damn thing," the injured man said, and before the matter could be pushed further he dropped the bottle into the remains of the fire and crawled into his sleeping bag.

And at that point, Barney made one of the biggest mistakes of his life: he let the conversation drop.

They didn't fool around anymore after that. It wasn't a conscious decision and it wasn't like they acted any different toward each other; they just stopped fucking. Barney worked, Tool healed. Barney worked, Tool 'retired'. Barney worked, Tool brought back girl after girl, none of them lasting more than a few days. They never discussed exactly why none of the girls stuck around, but Barney accidentally walked in on one as she made her exit one time.

He'd just come in through the back door when a crash and an angry yell alerted him to the fact that his friend was not alone upstairs. He debated leaving, but before he could decide there was another crash and the girl came slamming down the stairs, muttering a string of curses and the occasional "bastard" over her tattooed shoulder as she grabbed her purse from the banister and glanced up, halting as she spotted Barney.

She pushed her choppy, short-cut black hair over one ear, frowning, and asked in a surprisingly deep, cigarette-roughened voice, "Who're you?"

He coughed, glancing over her shoulder- she was tall, about his height, actually- to see if Tool was following after her. When no one else emerged at the top of the stairs, he looked back at her and began, "I'm Barney, I'm a friend of-"

"_You're_ Barney?" Her perfect eyebrows arched in disbelief or anger as she interrupted him. He was taken aback by the accusation in her tone.

"Uh, yeah."

The look of disbelief shifted, her lip curling, to one of cold fury, and she stormed past him, throwing one last "queerbastardsonofabitch" back at him or Tool or both of them before slamming the door and disappearing.

Still wearing a slightly bemused expression, the dark-haired man strolled over to the stairwell and called, "Hey, man, you up there?" When the only response was what sounded like muffled swearing, he rolled his eyes and made his way up.

Tool was lying face-down on the big, unmade bed, naked except for his boxers, one hand clutching a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort over the mattress. He groaned in annoyance and rolled over when the lights flicked on.

"Hell, Barn, it's 3 am. Don't you ever sleep?"

Barney raised an eyebrow. "Oh, something tells me I get about as much sleep as you do." He leaned down as the tattooist went to take another swig, grabbing the bottle. "And I think you've probably had enough of that for now."

"Aw, fuck you, man. Tellin' a man how much he c'n drink. I know how much I c'n drink."

"Now, we both know that's not true; if I wasn't here to keep an eye out for you, you'd drink 'til your liver committed seppuku." Barney took a swallow of the SoCo, made a face, and tossed the bottle out the window, feeling strangely satisfied at the crash from the street below.

Tool glared as angrily as he could muster, which wasn't terribly angry due to the fact that he was drunk enough that he wasn't sure which Barney to focus on, and muttered, "I sai' I know how much I _can_ drink, no' how much I _should_ drink."

"Yeah, well, I'm saying you've had enough." The black-haired man closed the window and turned back to the bed. "And I think your girlfriend would agree."

"Ex-gir'frin'." The drunk man made a half-hearted attempt to sit up, gave up and fell back onto the mattress.

"I kinda figured, seeing as how she seemed in the mood to murder something on her way out."

"Aw, shit," Tool groaned, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his right hand. "You two bumped inno each oth'r?"

"We crossed paths, yeah."

"You talk?"

Barney shrugged, wondering if this was going anywhere. "We exchanged one or two words."

"Wha' kinna words?"

He raised a brow. "Mostly angry swearing on her part. You sure do go in for charmers, buddy."

"Nn." The chop-shop owner passed a hand through his tangled hair. "'Parently I do."

"So what went wrong with this one?" Barney kicked an empty Chartreuse bottle aside.

"Ahh, y'know. I fucked it up." Tool waved vaguely and rolled into a half-upright position, resting on his elbows and kicking the tangled sheet away.

"Yeah? What'd you do this time? Make her the wrong drink or show her your comic book collection?"

"Shuddup." The long-haired man tried and failed once more to sit up fully. "Nah," he sighed, "I fucked it up all on m'own."

"Howsat?"

The retired Expendable closed his eyes, frowning and heaving another sigh. "I, uh..." He rubbed his brow. "I sorta accident'ly... when it was gett'n hot 'n' heavy, y'know, I... said th'wrong name."

Barney chuckled, half-smiling. "That'd do it."

"Yup." Tool fumbled with one hand, grabbed a pillow, pulled it behind his head and sank into the bed once more, the alcohol lulling him into sleep. "Lock th'fuckin' door on y'r way out, willya?"

"You kicking me out?" The mercenary asked.

"'Less you feel like sharin' th'bed," the prone man's voice was muffled through the arm he'd thrown over his face.

"That an invitation?" Barney asked carefully.

Tool's eyes appeared, watching him over the top of his arm. "I dunno. Izzit?"

"You want me to leave or not?"

The tattooist shook his head, the dark circles under his eyes like twin gouges in his face. "Man, you know I don't."

Barney nodded slowly, almost sadly. "I know." _And I know why you brought home a girl with black hair and tattoos, and why you can never hang onto a girl for more than a few days, and whose name you said by accident._ He didn't add any of those thoughts aloud. Instead he closed the door, flicked off the light, and crawled onto the bed, toeing off his boots but not bothering to take off his shirt or pants.

Tool rolled over and made room for him, his expression hidden in the neon near-dark of the city outside the blinded window. He yanked the sheets up, covering both of them, and cautioned, "Gotta tellya... 'm a lil too fuck to drunk."

"I kind of figured," Barney laughed, closing his eyes. "Don't worry 'bout it."

"'Kay," his companion shifted invisibly, was silent a few beats before asking in a slightly hoarse, hushed voice, "D'you mind?"

Unsure of what, exactly, he was being asked, but too tired to care much, Barney shrugged. "Nope."

He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't the quick brush of lips across his, happening so suddenly and swiftly that for a few minutes he lay wordlessly staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Tool's breathing slowed, evened out into the rhythm of sleep. Outside, the nightlights of the bars and clubs dimmed and died in the milky sunlight as it crawled across the metal and concrete jungle of the skyline. Four or five hours later, Barney slid out from under the arm that had found its way across his chest and stood up, slipping his boots back on and vanishing out the door.

He told himself that he just wasn't in the mood to deal with the hangover Tool would have when he woke up, that he'd come back later and they would both pretend they didn't remember last night, that Tool would have a pot of coffee and another job lined up and Barney would try once more to convince him to come out of retirement one more time.

He told himself all that. He didn't let himself think that maybe he was just scared, and not of a hangover, that both he and Tool remembered last night, that knowing his friend was retired, at least minimally safer than the old days, made him sleep a little better every night. He didn't let himself think any of that.


	2. Grenade

He wakes up to a world on fire.

Tool is lying face-down in the smoky rubble- the remains of his shop, his garage. Everything hurts, nerves singing agony. Burning chunks of wall and furniture are scattered around, and he makes a mournful noise when he recognizes the charred, twisted skeleton of his chopper, mangled beyond repair.

"Motherfuckers-" he tries to roll himself over, to locate something he can use to kill any remaining gangbangers, but for some reason his legs won't listen to his brain. The only thing they'll register is _pain pain pain pain_- and at least that means his spine isn't broken. Goddamn, who the hell expects a bunch of vengeful truck thieves to carry a homemade bomb with them?

Footsteps over the rubble, coming toward him. He grunts as he is flipped over onto his back, surrounded by the pissed-off thieves and their pissed-off friends, all wielding some form of blunt weapon or other.

"Hey fellas," Tool manages to get out between gritted teeth. He raises his head jerkily, taking stock of the damage while he's able. About six inches of metal rod has pierced his right shoulder, a bloom of crimson slowly spreading across his opened bathrobe. Bits of shrapnel pepper his torso, shards of metal and glass stuck fast in his skin. He tries to catch a glimpse of his legs, to see why they aren't working, and one of the thugs brings a pipe swinging down against his gut. A breath is forced free, Tool swearing as the shrapnel is pushed further into his flesh.

"Where's your friend, asshole?" The punk demands, raising the pipe once more.

"Come again?" The injured man grates, arching an eyebrow.

The pipe falls, smashing his nose. "The motherfucker who was with you when you jacked our fuckin' truck!"

Despite the pain, or maybe because of it (torture always brings out the smartass in him), Tool takes his time, pretending to think it over before answering, "Sorry, not ringing any bells. Try again."

The beating begins, blow after blow with metal, wood, and the occasional boot, blood spattering the air. And sure, it hurts like all hell, and sure, he could probably make it stop with a few words. But hey- he's had much, much worse than this, and he's trying to will enough strength into his arms to snatch one of the pipes away and do some damage with it, and dammit, he's not gonna give up Barney just because some idiot gangbangers got lucky enough to catch him off-guard. He's nothing if not loyal.

He's really starting to hate that truck, though.

After a few minutes he's able to grab a plank from one man's hand, and he sweeps the guy's feet out from under him, gets in a few good solid jabs with the sharp end of it before a kick to his groin makes him curl involuntarily, dropping the weapon. The assholes keep it up for a good ten minutes, until Tool stops feeling the actual pain of the blows. It becomes a sort of dull, repetitive numbness, like hitting a callous.

"Okay, motherfucker," the punk's voice is distant above the ringing in Tool's ears. There's the sharp sound of a hammer locking back, the cold press of steel against his temple. He can't really make out much through his swollen eyes, so he can't see the make, but it feels like some sort of 9mm. The guy's still talking. "You got ten seconds to gimme his name, or I put a bullet in your skull."

He hears the seconds being counted down, and he thinks.

He thinks about how pissed Gunnar's going to be- his bike was in the garage for repairs, and is now in pieces along with everything else. He thinks about how irritated Yang will be- the payment from their latest job was in an envelope on Tool's table, which is now on fire. He thinks about the girl- Sherri or Sydney or something- he had with him, who's now hiding in his safe room, probably wondering what the fuck is going on and hoping they don't find her. He thinks about Lee- of all the Expendables, the kid might actually take the time to mourn Tool; he hasn't seen as much as the others, isn't as used to losing people. Yeah, he might even, in a drunken fit of camaraderie, go out and get a goddamn spiderweb tattooed on his head. God, Tool hopes he doesn't. He thinks about all the women he's brought home, year after year, night after night of meaningless tumbles. He even thinks about the men he's brought home, the few times he's done it, when he was sure none of the others would interrupt and drunk enough to hope it would be the same as Barney. It never is.

And he thinks about Barney. He thinks about the feel of him, the gun-roughness of his hands, the taste of his favorite alcohol in Tool's mouth. He tries to imagine how Barney will react when he sees the ruin of the tattoo shop, the crumpled mound of Tool's body, and is surprised to find that he can't; he honestly doesn't know what the Expendable leader will do or say or feel. He wishes he hadn't been so drunk the other night, that he'd been sober enough to have one last throw with his oldest friend, with the one person he unreservedly loves more than anything else on the whole damn planet.

"...3... 2... Anything to say, Pops?"

Tool takes a shallow breath and spits a spray of blood toward the speaker. He hears a curse and grins.

0.8 seconds later his world fills with the sound of the shot.


End file.
